


The Boys of Baker Street

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Longings [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death, F/M, First Times, Gen, Love, M/M, Reconciliation, Sex, Spoilers for Series/Season Four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-19 14:27:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9445487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Spoilers for Series/Season Four.John and Rosie have moved into a newly repaired 221B, and Martha Hudson is ecstatic. Sherlock is up to his usual tricks, and more than one person is going to be surprised by what he plans.





	1. The Boys of Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

> So, originally, I had planned to wait and continue Longings when Series/Season Five aired, but honestly, I just can't wait that long. Also, my characters were demanding that I let them out, as they had more to say and were frankly demanding to say it their own way and in their own time. So from here on out I doubt I will be canon-compliant.

          Just like old times, Martha Hudson thought happily. Her building was freshly renovated, Sherlock and John had moved back in, and clients were flocking round. She loved all the bustle; if there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was a quiet night in, or a boring Sunday. With her boys back, things were sure to stay lively.

          And then there was little Rosie, what a pip she was! Martha hadn’t ever wanted children of her own (and a good thing that had turned out to be, given Mr. Hudson), and although she had turned her hand to nannying Sherlock for a few years when he was just a lad, child-minding wasn’t really part of her personality. But it made a difference when it was a precious little baby who lived in the flat above yours and who put out her arms and opened and closed her wee hands appealingly whenever she saw you.

          “You love Mrs. Hudson, eh?” John asked his daughter, as she lunged forward out of his arms trying to get to the landlady. He was prepared, and had a good hold on the tiny jumper Aunt Molly had given her, and put a staying hand on her round tummy as she tried to fly out of his arms.

          “Oh, John, really, “Mrs. Hudson.”” She tutted and took his daughter from him. “What a thing for the child to call me!”

          John smiled sheepishly, “Sorry, Martha. What shall she call you?”

          She frowned at him, “That’s Mrs. Hudson to you, young man! I’m your landlady, not your employee.” She ducked her head to kiss Rosie’s curly hair and missed John repressing a smile. She sat in John’s armchair and bounced the squealing girl on her lap, holding her hands so she could practice standing on her wobbly, bowed legs. “How about Aunt Martha? Everything else sounds too old.” Rosie squealed and tried to give her a sloppy buss on the chin.

          John chuckled, “Do you mind watching her for a bit? I want to run a few errands and Sherlock’s holed up in his room.”

          “Of course,” Martha held Rosie up in the air and made her giggle by bouncing her. “Does she need a feed?”

          “Naw, I took care of that.”

          He bounded down the stairs and she heard the front door slam. Only a few minutes had passed and she was just starting to read a busy book to Rosie when Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, impeccable in a snowy white button down, charcoal trousers and jacket; straightening his cuffs he made a ferocious face at the child, swooped on her growling loudly, and tickled her. She squealed and giggled helplessly, doubling over and trying to hide in Martha’s lap.

          “Sherlock!” She scolded, “You’re going to upset the girl.”

          “Nonsense, she loves it, don’t you Rosie?” Sure enough, the little girl was peeping at him, a delighted smile on her face. Martha’s heart melted a little when she saw how much the child adored him, and when she caught sight of Sherlock smiling back at John’s daughter, she had to blink hard. Her dear boy was growing up. Not being a fool, she pretended she hadn’t seen.

          “Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft is coming to discuss something and it is a matter of grave importance—to hear him tell it—and you’ll need to go.”

          Gathering Rosie, she stood up, “We’ll just go downstairs and watch some telly, won’t we?”

          Sherlock held out his arms, “Actually, I’ll take her. We’re all out of biscuits.” He smiled sweetly.

          “I’m not your—“

          “It will be easier if you go and don’t have to watch her as well,” Sherlock pointed out. “And since you’re going, there’s a list of things I need.”

          Grumbling, she left the flat, but secretly Martha was impressed that he was offering to watch the child alone, and the easy way he handled Rosie convinced her to leave them.

          No sooner had she turned the corner than Mycroft’s driver pulled his Jaguar up in front of 221, and Mycroft leaned over and asked him not to wait. He entered the building and mounted the stairs, hoping that whatever his brother needed, John Watson wouldn’t be present.

          It might be small of him, but ever since he had witnessed Mary Watson’s death and John’s extreme grief, he had had difficulty in meeting the man as it was. Then there was the horrific experience of being forced through Eurus’ torturous mind games with his brother and John Watson, which had changed something in Mycroft; he increasingly withdrew from even the few people he spent any significant time with. Seeing John Watson, the man who had—due to Mycroft’s cowardice—been prepared to shoot the Governor of Sherrinford to keep the Governor’s wife from being murdered, reminded him that he had turned away.

          Seeing his brother interacting with John Watson just served to bring back his own fatalistic decision to goad Sherlock into shooting him when Eurus forced Sherlock to choose between his best friend and his brother. It wasn’t that he had wanted to die, and he certainly hadn’t wanted his brother to have to bear the burden of killing him…but if one of them had to die by Sherlock’s hand, better it be the brother he constantly argued with and defied, than the man who had broken through his defenses and whom he loved.

          That he had, through his own devices, lost Molly Hooper, had to some extent effected his impulse to make the choice easier on Sherlock. The decision—though it had been his own—to sever all ties with Molly Hooper had been difficult, but, he believed, necessary. That it cost him a significant personal loss was besides the fact; Mycroft was a man of maturity, and life had taught him long ago that the world was not fair and life was not easy. He would adjust in time.

          Despite her prodigious intellect and frightening propensity to know things she shouldn’t, Eurus had not appeared to be aware of his personal attachment to Molly. Her torment of Sherlock and Molly, forcing him to drag a confession of love from her had been difficult for all of them, but Mycroft admitted, if only to himself, that it had been brutal for him to witness.

          His PA, Althea, had kept tabs on Molly, but Mycroft hadn’t had so much as a glimpse of her on CCTV, either by accident or design. It had been a shock to see her on the camera feed, looking older, worn and tired, as if she were at the end of her rope. Her strained voice and curt manner had been so unlike her that it had raised the fine hairs on his neck and caused gooseflesh to ripple on his spine. When she finally broke down and told Sherlock that she had always loved him, Mycroft exhaled in relief that Eurus had what she wanted and wouldn’t detonate the explosives she had claimed to have planted in Molly’s flat. Relief that she would live had warred with the unwelcome memory of her telling Sherlock she loved him.

          “You always knew that,” Mycroft reminded himself wearily, as he mounted the stairs, “It was always Sherlock that she loved.” But hearing it was another matter altogether, and the memory of her words echoed in his mind, firmly planted in the garden of his impressively retentive memory, and watered daily by his obsession with replaying it.

          He tapped on the door with the handle of his umbrella, and heard Sherlock’s voice bidding him enter. His younger brother was seated in his usual chair, slumped so that John Watson’s daughter could stand on his chest. She was currently leaning forward as far as Sherlock’s grasp on her pudgy hands would allow, trying to get her slobbery mouth on his. Mycroft recalled playing with his infant brother in just such a manner and felt a momentary softness in his chest as the pleasant memory washed over him.

          “Playing nursemaid?” He asked acerbically, as he leaned on his umbrella with crossed hands and arched a brow.

          “Hmm, yes. John and Mrs. Hudson are both out.”

          “And where is your unwashed mentee?”

          Sherlock’s lips quirked, “Wiggins is on a date.”

          Mycroft shuddered mentally, who on earth would wish to date him?

          “You wished to see me?”

          “Hmm. Actually, I wanted to ask you a favor.”

          This was so unprecedented that Mycroft’s grip on his umbrella slipped and he recovered by pretending he had intended on moving forward. Lowering himself with distaste onto the decrepit chair which usually served as John Watson’s perch, he hooked his umbrella over the arm and propped his clasped hands under his chin. “I must confess myself surprised. A favor…from me? Why exactly would you put yourself in the position of owing me anything?” Even as the mocking words left his lips he winced. As if he hadn’t taken enough from his brother already.

          “In return,” Sherlock said as if he hadn’t noticed Mycroft’s reaction, “I’ll…” he grimaced and braced himself, “I’ll accompany our parents to the theatre the next time they are in town.”

          Mycroft would have done quite a bit, if it meant a reprieve from a musical. “What did you want?” He asked warily. Knowing Sherlock, it could be anything up to and including a request for nuclear launch codes.

          “I need you to watch Rosie,” without waiting for an answer, Sherlock handed her to Mycroft and turned on an mp3 player which was mounted on a speaker system on the mantel, “She loves my violin, I made her a file, to keep her calm. Someone should be here soon. She’s had her feed, but you may need to change her nappy.”

          “Sherlock!” Mycroft called weakly, staring at the child in alarm as poignant violin music swelled to fill the room, “Sherlock!”

          Sherlock gave him an innocent look, “Honestly, someone will be here before you know it.” He ducked out the door and closed it behind him.

          Mycroft looked at Rosie and she regarded him solemnly in return. “Miss Watson,” he greeted her. Adjusting his hold—it had been decades since he held a child, but the muscle memory remained-- he settled her on his knee and studied her. “I’ve faced more frightening foes than you, young lady, so don’t get any ideas.”

          A tiny frown appeared on her forehead, and he was reminded forcibly of Mary Watson. “I suppose your father has told you about your mother. No doubt he whitewashes certain facts, but suffice it to say that she was a force to be reckoned with…I trust you will carry on her legacy? Otherwise your Uncle Sherlock will walk all over you. It’s best to set your boundaries with him early on. He’s quite impossible.”

          She raised her delicate little brows and looked impressed, “Ah, I see your father has left his mark on you as well. That’s all for the best, since he will be raising you. He’ll need to be able to understand you, and you he.”

******

 

          Her phone rang as Molly was walking from the bus, and she juggled the contents of her striped bag as she walked, looking for her mobile. Fetching it out just in time, she answered, “Sherlock? I’m almost to yours.”

          “Excellent. I had to leave—urgent message from my homeless network—and Rosie is alone.”

          “What?” Molly gasped in alarm and started jogging, “Sherlock, you tit! You can’t leave a child her age alone!”

          “You’re on your way,” he said dismissively, “Just be quiet as you go up, she was asleep when I left.”

          Huffing in exasperation, she hung up and trotted down the street, bag banging into her side with each step. Reaching 221 she opened the front door and quietly mounted the stairs, easing open the door to the flat, from which she could hear a violin playing. Honestly, that man—

          “…consider me your guardian; I won’t take you to fun fairs, or buy you a pony, but you will be the best protected child in London.”

          Mycroft became aware that he was not alone, and looked up. Molly, who had been frozen in shock just inside the door, thought that his face went as pale as hers felt. It seemed as if all the blood in her head had drained away, and she clutched the edge of the door, faintness leaving her dizzy.

          “Molly.”

          She couldn’t bring herself to speak. It had been months since she saw him, and all her hard-won composure was disappearing like a sandcastle at high tide. Whirling around, all she could think of was fleeing.

          “Molly, wait!” Mycroft sounded desperate, and she stood trembling, doorknob in her hand, tears falling. “Please…I know you don’t owe me anything…but please, don’t go.”

          She gasped for air, and knew that if she tried to speak she would start crying out loud. Clinging to her remaining dignity, she stood with her back to him, tacitly allowing him to continue.

          “Thank you.” There was a long silence, and she wondered uneasily what he was doing. If he tried to touch her…

          “I—“ Mycroft broke off, as if at a loss for words. She noted that his voice hadn’t changed locations. “You are well?”

          Shaking her head, she wasn’t even sure if it were in answer to his question, or to indicate that she couldn’t speak. He seemed to take it as answer, however, and his voice sounded even sadder. “I had hoped that by now…”

          “What?” Molly asked shrilly, “What could you possibly—“

          He spoke when it was clear she wasn’t going on. “All I wanted was for you to be safe and happy.”

          Molly turned around, and when he saw her tears, his face changed, as if he had released his control over himself. She castigated herself for feeling hope, but it seemed she was a perpetual fool where this man was concerned. Looking away in embarrassment, she wiped her cheeks on her sleeve, and cleared her throat so she could speak. “I told you before, I couldn’t take you disappearing from my life.”

          “Molly, there were circumstances which—“

          “I know. Sherlock told me about your sister.” Her mouth twisted ruefully, “That was a hell of a conversation.”

          Rosie, bored and tired of being ignored, had discovered Mycroft’s silk handkerchief and pulled it from his jacket pocket and was busy trying to stuff it in her mouth. Mycroft gently extracted it, and stilled her protest by pulling his pocket watch from his waistcoat and dangling it in front of her. “It’s fine,” he said in response to Molly’s dubious expression, “This watch it over a hundred years old, it has survived two world wars, she will hardly destroy it, and it’s too big for her to choke on.” He rubbed Rosie’s small back absently, “Won’t you sit down?”

          Eyes on his perfectly manicured hand making soothing circles on Rosie’s striped jumper, Molly sat down in Sherlocks’s chair. “Are we going to have a civilized conversation?” Molly asked a trifle acerbically; she wasn’t in the mood for polite lies and obfuscation.

          She was surprised to see him smile, “I think we’re past that, don’t you? I have something I wish to say, and then you may respond, or leave, whichever you wish. Agreed?” At her nod, he continued, “Making difficult decisions and sacrificing my personal happiness have become second nature to me. As I wrote in my letter to you, I am not like other people, and I’m not certain that at this point I can change—“

          “I never asked you to change!” Molly contested hotly, “I know I agreed to let you speak your piece, but you stop right there. I never wanted you to change or to be anyone other than you.” She pressed her hands to her head, “I like—“ with a rueful laugh she sucked up her courage and corrected herself, “I _love_ you . I love you, Mycroft Holmes. Not some version of you I’ve made up in my head. Trust me, I’ve had a long time to think about this. I know just who I’ve fallen in love with.”

          Stunned seemed too mild a word to describe his expression, and it took some time before he spoke, “But—you told Sherlock you loved him—”

          “Well it was obvious something was wrong, and if he was asking me to tell him I loved him, then I by God was going to.” Molly calmed down a little, “Besides, I do love him, I have for years.” She met his eyes and saw his defeat change to something else, “But I’m not _in love_ with him.” The expression of hope mingled with uncertainty tugged at her heart, and she stood, stepped across to him and lifted her god-daughter out of his arms, pressing a kiss to her temple, “Sorry, sweet girl, but you’re in my seat.” She sat down on Mycroft’s lap and he automatically adjusted to accommodate her, putting a steadying arm behind her back.

          They looked at one another, and she saw how tired he looked, and how much older he seemed to have grown in all the months since she had seen him. “Honestly, for someone so smart you’re really dim,” Molly commented. She started to kiss him then stopped, “You do realize this doesn’t solve everything?”

          “I’m not a complete idiot, although I am, it turns out, much more of an optimist than I would have suspected.” This caused Molly to laugh, and this time she kissed him in earnest, sliding her free hand behind his neck as if to keep him from running away. The author is shocked to report that they quite forgot Rosie for some time, until one of her waving hands caught in Molly’s hair and brought them back to earth.

          Molly sat patiently as Mycroft unwound the long strands from between Rosie’s small fingers, and then she laid her head on his shoulder as naturally as if it had always rested there, and listened as he apologized to Rosie for their ignoring her. He went on to explain that it was rude to interrupt people who were kissing, unless it were a life or death situation. “Not that she’s likely to interrupt many people kissing here,” Molly commented, thinking of how Sherlock spent their time together alternately gloating at John’s return, assuring her (although she had not accused him) that he did not feel guilty for Mary’s death, and mooning over John.

          “Oh, I don’t know,” mused Mycroft, “Anything’s likely to happen in this bohemian residence.”

          “Hopefully no more bombs,” Molly shivered. She looked around her properly for the first time. “Bloody hell,” she breathed in wonder, “It’s the same wall paper! And John’s chair! How on earth did it survive? I thought the blast obliterated the room.

          “I phoned the Ministry of Magic,” Mycroft deadpanned.

          A much needed laugh shook Molly’s frame, and she snuggled her head back onto his shoulder. “Oh, Mycroft, I do love you.”

          She felt the tension return to him, and tried to ignore her immediate response, which was embarrassment and worry. Tilting her head back to look at his face, she cupped his jaw and made him look at her, “Am I moving too fast?” He shook his head but still didn’t speak. “Are you okay with me saying it?” He nodded, and took her hand so he could kiss her knuckles, and then folded it and put it over his heart, staring into her eyes. “You don’t have to say it yet,” she whispered, although she wasn’t sure why—perhaps because the moment seemed so solemn. “As long as you’re honest with me, that’s all I ask.”

          Another kiss was her answer, and the embrace might have lasted longer, only Rosie wanted in on the action, squealing to get their attention, and then lunging inaccurately at Mycroft. He obligingly shifted her higher on his arm and kissed her cheek, then suffered a rather wet kiss to his cheek in return. Molly, it had to be confessed, went rather gooey inside. Unlike most of her friends, she didn’t long for babies, but it was undeniably true that the sight of Mycroft canoodling with little Rosie was adorable, to say the least. He was unexpectedly good with the child, and it gave Molly hope that he could someday be as relaxed with her. _Maybe he fears judgment_ , she thought.

 

******

 

          After an hour spent trudging around fetching the things that were—according to Sherlock at least—of dire need, John made his way back home. It felt both very natural and very strange to be referring to Baker Street that way again. If it hadn’t been for the presence of his daughter—and the occasional presence of his dead wife—John would have felt as if he had never left. As if his time as a husband and father had just been a dream.

          But for one, there was Rosie, who seemed, despite her small size, to be everywhere in the flat; John was waiting for Sherlock’s uncharacteristic good mood to falter, but so far he was unfailingly patient. Harry had read him the riot act when she found out that he was returning to his old flat. “You can’t possibly be serious, John!” She had stormed over the phone, “You nearly died in an explosion there not that long ago and now you’re bringing your daughter in!”

          John couldn’t explain that it wasn’t his idea in the first place, it was Mary’s. Everyone except Sherlock seemed to think he was bonkers, but Mary showed up when he needed advice—or a good slap of reality—to set him right. “Look,” she had pointed out very sensibly, “bad things can happen anywhere…we both know that. Maybe the safest place for Rosie is with two of the most dangerous men in London. Besides, her uncle Mycroft will keep an eye on the three of you.”

          John grimaced when he thought of Sherlock’s older brother, with whom he had a complicated relationship, and whom he regarded with a certain amount of distrust. Once, in the heat of anger, he had accused Sherlock of being a machine; turned out he had been wrong. Never would he have thought that Sherlock’s brother, however, was anything other than a cold and calculating machine. But going through the torturous experience Eurus had planned for the three of them had shown him a few things. Mycroft was human; he had been the one, of the three of them, to most strongly rebel at the idea of killing the Governor, calling it what it was: murder.

          What had really taken John aback was that Mycroft had tried to goad Sherlock, using reverse psychology, into killing him when Eurus forced him to choose between the two of them. He had tried, as Sherlock pointed out, to spare him from choosing his brother over John. _He does love his brother_ , John had thought in a combination of shame and amazement, _and he’s bloody calm about the idea of dying._ There was more than one kind of courage.

          None of which meant that John was a fan of Mycroft Holmes. So when he walked into 221B and saw his daughter cuddling with Molly Hooper and Mycroft Holmes, all three of them in his chair, he was so shaken that he stepped out into the hallway, checked that he was in the right building, and then stepped back into the flat. “What.”

          Molly might have struggled to get up, but Mycroft, although his face went red, stayed her with a light touch of his hand on her hip, “Ah Doctor Watson. Welcome home. We were just explaining to your daughter why it was a good idea for her to take a nap.”

          “What.”

          “Hi, John!” Molly chirped nervously, trying to sit up straight on Mycroft’s knees, and look as if she weren’t dying of embarrassment. “Sherlock asked me to come watch Rosie—“

          “As he did myself,” interjected Mycroft. “I suspect my brother was arranging for us to be alone.”

          “ _What_.”

          “John, are you alright?” Molly asked a bit anxiously, looking at him when he remained standing in the doorway, seemingly stunned.

          “I do believe that Doctor Watson is experiencing shock. No doubt he did not expect to come home and find us thus arrayed.”

          John woke up a little, shaking his head like a dog with water in its ears. “Where is Mrs. Hudson?” He asked, since it seemed the safest way to start.

          “No idea,” Molly said, even as Mycroft replied, “Gone when I arrived, but as I said, I do believe my brother arranged for Molly and myself to be alone—I do beg your pardon, Rosamunde—to effect a reconciliation between us. I’m sure he used a pretext to get her out of the way.”

          _A reconciliation?_ John thought dumbly, _as in, they were together before. Where? When? How in the hell did Sherlock know and why would he care?_

“I should go,” Molly said breathlessly, having managed to free herself from Mycroft’s lap. He rose and handed Rosie to John, who took her automatically. “Allow me to escort you home.” He nodded sardonically at John, “Doctor Watson.”

          “Eh? Yeah, yeah, uh, goodnight.” John watched in bemusement as they departed, Mycroft’s hand on the small of Molly’s back. Her face was turned up toward his, and she was smiling as if, well, as if the sight of him were dear to her. “What in the bloody hell?” John shook his head, “Ignore me, Rosie, Daddy said a bad word.” He settled her higher on his hip and closed the flat door. “Really weird. Really, really weird.”

          He hadn’t quite recovered his equilibrium by the time Sherlock returned, and he was uncertain if he should bring it up or not. The decision was taken out of his hands when his flatmate demanded, “Well? Did it work?”

          “Did what work?” John asked in exasperation, “Was I supposed to know what was going on?”

          “Molly and Mycroft…are they speaking? I calculated that trapping them here with Rosie and violin music would work on their defenses.”

          “You _knew_? You knew there was something going on? I mean…what _is_ going on?”

          “The usual, John. Molly has inexplicably fallen in love with my brother, and Mycroft, in a most unexpected twist, appears to have a heart after all.” Sherlock scooped up Rosie up from the rug and tossed her in the air. “Were they disgustingly gooey? I hope you spit up on Mycroft, Rosie, he needs to be taken down a peg or two.”

          John was repelled at the idea of the two of them together. Sweet Molly Hooper and slithery Mycroft Holmes did not, in his mind, fit together. “How long has this been going on?”

          “Oh, ages.” Sherlock was airy, “I’m surprised you haven’t noticed. The signs were there.”

          John snorted, “Who in their right mind would think of the two of them as a couple?! Talk about an odd pair.” He walked into the kitchen, missing his flatmate’s expression, “Fancy a cuppa?”

          Sherlock gently deposited Rosie on the rug, “No thank you, John. I’ll be in my room.” He was gone with a swirl of his coat, leaving Rosie to wail, bereft.


	2. The Boys of Baker Street- Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Mycroft accelerate the pace of their relationship. Sherlock thinks about his next step with John. John reflects on his life now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider this chapter setting at Mature or possibly Explicit.

          “Why did you look so…” Mycroft paused too long, “... overwrought... when Sherlock called that day?”

          Molly kept her head where it was, on his shoulder. After leaving Baker Street, they had gone to her flat, and are currently lying together on her couch. She has discovered that Mycroft has an easier time talking about emotions if she doesn’t look directly at him. This has the added benefit of ending in them cuddling.

          “The day Eurus forced him to call?” His nod causes his chin to bump into the top of Molly’s head and she smiles. _I’m pathetic_ , she thinks happily, _the man knocks me in the head with his chin and I go all fluttery._ After so long without him, to be lying in his arms is close to bliss; for the moment she doesn’t need any more.

          “I’d gotten your letter,” she finally responds, smile fading. That day, one of the worst days she has experienced aside from the deaths of her parents, is indelibly burned in her memory, etched on her heart with acid. She fights a sense of bitterness, not wanting her present happiness tainted. _I will have to work not to resent him for it_ , Molly thinks forcefully _. Hanging onto anger isn’t worth what it will cost me._

          “Oh,” Mycroft responded softly. There is a long silence before he speaks. “I thought that you might be upset but I didn’t think you would be so…devastated.”

          Forgetting that he is more comfortable when they avoid eye contact during such emotional moments, Molly twists her neck so she can look at him. “Seriously?” Her voice is ripe with disbelief. “How did you think I would take it?”

          He looks uncomfortable, guilty. “I confess it never crossed my mind that I was that important to you.”

          If Molly could have read Mycroft’s mind, she would have been touched at how blown away he was at the idea of mattering so much to her. As it was, she curled around his long frame and he found himself on the receiving end of a most satisfying kiss. “If you thought that, why bother sending it at all?”

          “My way of saying goodbye, I suppose.” The fatalistic way he says it, as well as all that Sherlock has told her of that dark time, fills Molly with a sense of coldness that lingers. Thinking of how close she came to losing him, she wraps her arms more tightly about his chest.

          “Is this the part where we solve everything?” Mycroft inquires, sometime later. “I confess I’m finding this quite enjoyable.”

          She elbows him. “Thin ice, mister.”

          A laugh shakes his frame, and he actually pats her bum, “I’m an excellent skater.”

          “Are you really?”

          “Erm, no. All a lie I’m ashamed to admit. I was too fat as a child, and I’ve never been very athletic. I couldn’t tell you the last time I was in skates.”

          Molly swallows a fit of laughter, picturing Mycroft in roller skates or indeed ice skates. A giggle slips out and he pinches her bum, which he has been lightly stroking. “Are you laughing at me, Molly Hooper?”

          “Sorry…just, I was seeing you in one of your three piece suits, roller skating.” She giggles again, louder, “You have to admit it would be a funny sight.” She toys with the button on his waistcoat; he has removed his suit coat and shoes, but he is still very much dressed. There is nothing remotely suggestive about his attire. Apparently that does not matter to her libido. She has been aware for some time that she has a bit of a letch for his beautifully tailored suits, but now she wants him out of them.

          Rationally, as an adult, she knows that she should make him wait, that they need to talk out details, make sure they are on the same page as far as their expectations for this relationship…but hormonally, she is a teenager and right now she wants to rip off his clothes.

          He may claim not to be very athletic, but his thigh, under her leg, is firm and the muscles flex if he moves…she wants to feel the rest of him. _Down girl_ , she counsels herself. _Plenty of time for that_.

          But was there? If anything, their lives were fraught with danger, and Molly knew from experience that you can lose someone you love in the space between breaths. _I’m thirty-seven, I know what I want and I don’t want to wait any more._

“Molly?” Mycroft asks inquiringly, as her breathing increases, and he feels a new tension rising in her. “My dear, are you alright?”

          Molly smiles at him and takes a kiss, deepening it, sliding her hands over his arms, his chest. He gasps a little, and she bites his lower lip, drawing it slowly into her mouth. Mycroft drags her over him, pulls her closer so they can kiss more passionately, and she is pleased to feel his erection between them. _He’s nicely on board_ , she gloats. _Yesss_.

          “We should stop—“ Mycroft tries to put a halt to the proceedings, but she is unbuttoning his waistcoat so she can slide her hand in, feeling the heat of his body through his shirt. “Molly,” he tries again, sounding a little strangled.

          She raises her head and meets his eyes, “Why?” Her hand leaves his chest and slides down his belly, which she notes tenderly he sucks in automatically, as if he is ashamed of it. Her hand stops at his belt, and she lightly cups his erection through the cloth of his trousers, then more firmly, when he doesn’t object. “I want you. I’ve waited long enough. I want to be with you, Mycroft Holmes…if you want me.” Uncertainty sets in, and she wants to die of embarrassment. He is trying to slow things down…maybe he doesn’t—

          Oh, no, very clearly he does. He swells harder beneath her hand, and she watches in fascination as his normally steely blue eyes go the pale blue of a summer sky, and his pupils dilate. Nope, Mycroft is very definitely affected by her.

          “Sense tells me to slow down, manners dictate that I wait until we have been together longer. But I want to hang good sense out to dry and for once please myself…” His smile is predatory, “…and you.”

          They kiss deeply, and Molly clutches at him, feeling her head whirl as desire pulls at her and caution is abandoned. She is swimming in pleasure, warmed head to toe by love…they part for air and she gasps, “The bed?”

          “Please…I know passion should override good sense, but I’m too old to cavort like a teenager, and I want to have full access to you.”

          “Mmm,” Molly nips his lips, “You’re lovely, Mycroft Holmes, did you know that?”

          “Happy to please, my dear.” Mycroft hesitates as they stand, “Should I, erm—“

          “What?”

          “Carry you?”

          She fell in love with him a little more. Hiding a smile she will never let him see, Molly stands on tip toe, so she can rub the tip of her nose against his, an action which momentarily confounds him. His expression indicates that he is not certain why she is doing it, but he doesn’t object.

          In the bedroom, Molly starts to pull her jumper off, but Mycroft puts his hand on her arm. “May I please?” Shivering in anticipation, Molly lowers her arms and lets him undress her. She has never had a man undress her before, and it is strangely erotic, she likes that he is taking control. Given his reserved nature and lack of confidence in himself when it came to interpersonal matters, she would have suspected she would have to seduce him. Now that she has made it clear she wants him, he is taking over.

          Flushing with desire as much as with nerves, Molly finally stands naked in front of him. Feelings of inadequacy melt as he sweeps her with his eyes, then cradles the back of her head and one hip in his hands, and kisses her thoroughly. “Beautiful, my dear.”

          She reaches for his shirt, but he catches her wrist in his; turning it he kisses her frantically pounding pulse, and looks at her from under lowered lids. “You can, of course, undress me…however, unless I miss my guess…” He steps back out of reach and begins to slowly slide his tie out of its knot. Molly exhales and he smiles, eyes heavy-lidded. As he undresses, Molly climbs on the bed (as sexily as possible) and arranges herself (as sexily as possible) on top of the duvet. _I should have planned this better_ , she fretted, _how long has it been since_ I _shaved my legs, I could have at least turned on the lamps and not the glaring overhead light._ Her worry is side tracked as Mycroft removes his waistcoat, and then undoes the cufflinks holding his shirt cuffs closed. Unaware of the dreamy sigh that slips out, Molly forgets her worries and watches as he takes off his worldly armor and reveals himself to her, a piece of clothing at a time.

          When he is down to his pants, Mycroft hesitates, then looking at her he smiles a bit, “I think we’d both be more comfortable…” and turns on the lamp beside the bed. Turning off the overhead light, he pauses for just a moment then steps out of his pants.

 

******

 

          Somehow, the urgency is gone, and there is, if not a wall between them, then at least a barrier of some sorts. Trying not to think he has suddenly discovered he does not want her and is just carrying on to be polite, Molly gamely presses on, telling herself it’s just nerves. The kisses feel wonderful, but she is firmly in her head now, worrying about her breath, the stubble on her legs, whether or not Toby is going to come in and sit on Mycroft’s clothes and crease them.

          Mycroft eases back and tilts her chin up with his finger, “Second thoughts?”

          His shuttered face plucks at her heart, and she shakes her head vigorously, “No! I…” she heaves a sigh, “I’m just…nervous, I guess? And well…I feel like you’re sort of…” she trails off, afraid she will insult him.

          “Yes?” He asks it calmly, but she can feel his tension. He is withdrawing from her.

          “Mycroft, please, don’t be like that—“ Fighting worry, she wonders how this has fallen apart after such a promising beginning. “It sort of feels like you’re, well, doing this by—by the numbers.”

          He flops onto his back and stares at the ceiling. Anxiously, Molly rolls onto her side and raises herself on one arm so she can peer at his face. “Mycroft?”

          “Damn.”

          “Mycroft?”

          “My apologies my dear,” he says smoothly. “It appears I have forgotten how to be spontaneous.”

          “I didn’t—“

          He looks at her then, and she is relieved to see he is smiling, although he looks embarrassed also. “It’s been several years since I was last with a woman, and even then—well, let us just say that it was only ever about satisfying a need and moving on.”

          “Oh.”

          He raises his hand and pushes her hair out of her face, strokes her cheek. “I want you, Molly Hooper, very much. I’m afraid that I’m just suffering from a bit of nerves.” His mouth twists self-deprecatingly, “This is terribly important to me, and the idea of messing it up—“

          “I know how you feel,” Molly confides, “I’ve never been such a bundle of nerves before. All I can think about is how I compare to the women you’ve known, and how I’m not prepared for this—I’m afraid I should have shaved my legs before we started!” His laugh startles her, and she stops babbling, “What?! It’s true. I’m—I’m just not—“

          “You are the woman I want, and I want you just as you are. We started out alright, didn’t we?”

          She nods, and sighs as he ghosts his hand down her side, causing gooseflesh to ripple over her skin. “Oh yes…”

          “I believe I wasn’t wrong, you did like watching me undress, didn’t you?”

          “Mmmhmm,” Molly moaned a little when he lightly brushed the back of his fingers over her nipple, then skimmed his fingertips over the sensitive skin on the underside of her breasts.

          “What was your favorite part?” Mycroft leaned in and kissed her throat lightly, then a little stronger, ever so slightly sucking on her skin.

          “Wha--? Ohhh, um, when you took your tie off.” Molly flushed and felt his smile against her skin.

          “Did you imagine me looping it around your wrists and tying you up?” Mycroft purrs before his wonderful lips press their way to her carotid. She feels a shiver of desire mixed with fear, as his voice vibrates against her skin.

          “Oh yes…Mycroft…”

          His hand, warm and beautifully manicured, the skin soft on her own soft, soft skin, touches her waist, her hip, gently but firmly guides her right leg up over his hip, and she barely notices that she is exposed, except for the cool wash of air on her inner thighs. “I’d like to restrain you, my dear…I want to fulfill your every desire. Making you happy will make me happy.” His breath mists her nipple, and Molly arches her back, desperate for him to—oh, oh yes. Her head falls back and she sighs as his mouth finds her nipple and she burrows her fingers into his hair.

          His warm mouth works magic on her nipple, his free hand moving across her skin, waking up all her nerve endings. Molly opens dreamy eyes and leans to press a kiss to the side of his temple, massaging his neck, his shoulder. “Mycroft…love…”

          He raises his head and captures her mouth with his, deepening his kiss and moving over her until her back is on the mattress and he is leaning over her. His hand massages her breast, slides over her belly (she almost forgets to suck it in, but then does forget when his hot, hot hand kneads her hip) and with the first delicate touch of his fingers between her legs, she sighs and melts into the bed.

 

******

 

          It was possibly unreasonable of him to expect John to not only be ready to move on from Mary, who had not been dead that many months but to expect him to understand that Sherlock considered the success of Molly and his odious brother as a couple to be synonymous with the concept of he and John…together.

          Of course, they are together now. Flat mates once more. Colleagues. Friends. He can be happy with that. He _has_ been happy with that. But he wants more than mere friendship with John Watson. It has taken Sherlock an incredibly long time to not only realize this but to be comfortable with the idea that he wants to—ugh—“share his life’’ with another person. He had not lied at John and Mary’s wedding: he does love John Watson.

          It was only in the past few months that he had realized just how much he loved him, and in what ways; remarkable really, when he sees so much. Apparently the human mind is very tricky when it comes to self-awareness.

          Molly hasn’t said so outright, but he knows she knows. Once or twice, purely out of the blue, and for no apparent reason, she has mentioned that it could take people many years to grieve the loss of a loved one. Tragic and unexpected loss, he should understand, could extend this period.

          He will be patient; he has had years in which he wanted only to be alone. Probably best not to rush a move into a relationship. But—but, well, he really wishes John hadn’t said that about Molly and Mycroft being an odd couple.

          Sherlock has been bombarded for years with John telling all and sundry that he isn’t gay. Even if they never engage in intercourse, he thinks he will be fine, but he does want—

          Well, he wants. And he wants it sooner rather than later. He has been holding onto the idea of Molly and Mycroft’s success at a relationship as a kind of benchmark toward which he can aim. They are, in many ways, like John and himself: Molly and John are both warm, awkward, funny, a little bit dark and twisted, and they understand people and emotions. Not that he will admit it to him, but Sherlock is like Mycroft: they prefer reason and logic to emotions, their intelligence is practically boundless (although Mycroft is _not_ the smart one) and they have difficulty in letting people close to them.

          Since he can’t talk to John about this, Sherlock has taken to dropping in on Molly and leading the conversation around to relationships. She tells him about all of hers that have gone wrong and why, and he files away the practical knowledge against the day that he will need it. Surely the day will come. Please let it come.

          Consequently, Sherlock uses his lock picks to open Molly’s door and slip quickly into the flat lest Toby escape. “Molly, I’m here.” He calls out softly, as he has scared her in the past, and once she nearly brained him with a frying pan. (The idea that he should knock and wait for her to let him in hasn’t occurred to him). “Molly?”

          Hearing a muffled noise from the direction of her bedroom, he heads that way, only to have the hairs on the back of his neck raise in alarm when he hears what sounds like a pained moan. Is she in trouble? Has she been hurt? Sherlock swoops down the hall and is about to call out a warning and open her bedroom door, which is cracked, when he distinctly hears her moan, “Oh my Gaaaaawd, Mycroft…!”

          “ _Christ, Molly_! You’re going to kill me—“

          Horror washes over him when he realizes what he is hearing, and Sherlock hurriedly backs out of the hallway, intent on escape. How revolting! He had never actually thought Mycroft would engage in a physical—

          “Yes! Oh God, yesyesyes _yes_ …”

          Blanching, Sherlock darts out the front door, not stopping to lock it. He knew they had feelings for one another, but for it to come to this…frankly he is amazed his older brother hadn’t spent months planning some sort of seductive encounter.

 

******

 

          Mycroft has collapsed partly on top of Molly, and they are both breathing heavily. _I need to increase my time on the treadmill,_ Mycroft thinks.

          “Ohhhh…I feel marvelous.” Molly stretches as he rolls off of her, pointing her toes like a ballerina, hooks her hands over the headboard. She runs her hands un-self-consciously down her body, smiles in a very cat-who-got-the-cream manner, and reaches for him. “Mycroft Holmes: man of mystery and the world’s greatest lover.”

          He scoffs a bit, but preens on the inside. “Surely not the world’s greatest, my dear.”

          “The greatest I’ve ever had,” Molly says smugly, smiling at the ceiling. He is not sure if his heart or his ego is more in danger of swelling to disastrous proportions, but at the moment he doesn’t care. He’d thrown his play book out the window and damned if Molly hadn’t loved every minute of it.

          She rolls her head toward him and grins, “You have an _awfully_ pleased look on your face, sir.”

          “I have an awfully pleased lady on my hands, apparently. And to think, I had been planning on a course of seduction, several months of dates, to culminate in a night of sophisticated sex.”

          Molly giggled helplessly, “Sophisticated sex, eh? Well, don’t let me stop you from keeping to your plans. You can seduce me as often as you like.” Nibbling on his jaw, she breathes in his ear, “Can I seduce you?”

          “That was done long ago, my beautiful girl.” He uses the endearment a trifle awkwardly, finding it hard to break through his habitual reserve, but is rewarded by her glowing smile and the very satisfying kiss which followed.

          “When did you know that, you know, you um…” Amazingly, considering the emotional rollercoaster they have already been on, and the fact that they are lying in bed naked, following what was, for Mycroft—and apparently for Molly as well—stupendously great sex, she blushes and trails off. He helps her, “Wanted you?”

          “Mmhmm.” Molly presses her hands to her hot face and peeps at him over them.

          He names a date several months after they first became uneasy friends. “You were sick, you had a streaming cold and when we met you kept apologizing about being ill…I don’t know, for some reason I felt—“ Mycroft paused, a bit embarrassed, “Uh, tender. Afterward I kept finding my thoughts turning to you during my meetings, and that night, I realized that despite your red nose and frankly disgusting cough,” Molly makes a face at him and laughs delightedly when he mimics her, “Well, suffice it to say that I couldn’t help but find you beautiful.”

          Molly melts, “Mycroft, love…” several minutes later she raises her head from their kiss and looks at him; he is nearly cross-eyed from her proximity, and his hair is standing out wildly. “Believe it or not, I know how you feel.” She makes a face, “Somehow I’m never at my best around you.”

          “I can’t get your cat shirt out of my head,” Mycroft confesses shamefacedly.

          “What?”

          “The top that you wore the night we waited to find out about Sherlock…”

          Molly thinks back, and then groans, “Oh God, that old thing? I was so embarrassed you saw me in that!”

          “On the contrary, I couldn’t stop thinking about you in that shirt…the way your breasts moved under it…several times I could see the curve of them at the side, where the material was cut low.” Mycroft smiles reminiscently. “And it was silly, playfull…Molly.”

          _Who needs silk lingerie?_ Molly thought in bemusement, listening to him. All these years she had a powerful tool of seduction in her arsenal and yet she never thought to use it.

          “I need to use the um, loo,” she says some time later, sitting up. “I’m dying of thirst too, would you like a glass of water?”

          “Allow me, my dear.”   

          She uses the loo and hurriedly gives her privates a quick wash with a soapy cloth. Putting on fresh deodorant, Molly fumbles to simultaneously brush her teeth.

          In the hallway Mycroft is standing patiently, “I put the water on the bedside table. Might I--?”

          “Of course,” she blushes and hurries into the bedroom. Straightening the wildly twisted bedding, Molly surveys the room and picks up the things she had left flung around from this morning. Stuffing them in the wardrobe, she spies the fat candle on her dresser, which smells divine. Ah, romantic…just one more thing.

          Mycroft returns, smelling of soap and her deodorant. “I hope you don’t mind. You smelled delightfully fresh when we passed in the hall, and I helped myself to your hygiene items and used a bit of mouthwash.”

          “Of course not,” Molly said breathlessly. She turned from where she had been lighting the candle, and gauges his expression when he sees her. She is wearing the cat tank top, which just barely skims her hips, and does little to conceal the vee of her thighs. Mycroft goes silent, his eyelids dropping to conceal the intensity of his gaze, and Molly holds her breath.

          At last he crosses the room, and stops in front of her, then slowly, torturously, reaches out and places his hands on the sides of her breasts. Molly cups his elbows in her hands and meets his eyes. Silently, he weighs her breasts in his palms and Molly tries not to think about how inadequately small they are, a brush of his thumbs over her nipples takes her mind nicely off of that, and when he tugs at the top and gathers the cloth between her breasts, she forgets it entirely. A kiss is placed first on her left nipple, and then on her right, before his hands smooth down her sides. Reaching her hips, Mycroft hitches the hem of the top up slightly, then stops.

          “Myc—“

          Picking her up, he walks the few feet to the bed and lowers her gently down; her legs are dangling off the end of the bed, and he coaxes her to lie down, stopping to fetch a pillow and place it under her head. Molly’s heart is racing and she can feel the blazing heat of her blush.

          Lowering himself to his knees, Mycroft very politely parts her legs and slides his hands up her thighs. Molly tries not to think about leg stubble, or cellulite, or how embarrassed she is right now. Surely he isn’t going to—

          Mycroft sweeps her top up and lowers his head, hot breath moving over her skin. Daring to peep at him, Molly can see the flush on his face, but he presses on, precisely draping her legs over his shoulders. Trembling, Molly covers her face with her hands, and then peeks at him, hardly daring to believe that he is going to—

          A soft brush of his thumb over her seam sent a shiver of anticipation through Molly, then he used his thumb and finger to part her lips and before she can gasp in a breath, his mouth is on her. His first movements are somewhat hesitant, causing her to guess that he has either never done this, or is wildly embarrassed, but before she can assure him that he can stop he deepens the sweep of his tongue, and uses his fingers to enhance his performance. Moaning, Molly lowered her hands from her face and slid her fingers into his hair.

          Desire is mounting in her, but he is driving her wild, prolonging the pleasure but not building towards a release. Molly wants him never to stop, even as she tugs on his hair, hoping he will speed it up. The sensations moving through her are delicious and –

          “Yes my dear?” Mycroft sounds incredibly polite, considering his position. Molly opens her eyes and sees him peering at her curiously.

          “Uh, what?”

          “You were pulling at my hair like you had hold of the reins of a runaway horse, I thought perhaps you wished me to stop.” His face is impossible to read.

          “N-no!” Molly blurts, going red again, “I…” screwing up her courage, she confesses in a near whisper, “It feels _amazing_ , you’re amazing, and I was just…” She stutters to a stop, overcome with mortification.

          He regards her patiently, “You don’t wish me to desist?”

          “No!”

          “Were you, perhaps, urging me on?” A slow smile lights his face and he regards her quite wickedly. Molly feels herself grow even wetter and she drags a pillow over her face, “No,” her response is muffled, “I wanted you to—to—“

          “Molly, there’s no need for shame, I’m your lover. What do you want?” He kisses her belly quite tenderly, and says against her flesh, “What do you need?”

          “I want more!” Sitting up on her elbows, Molly meets his eyes, “I want your mouth on me harder—you don’t have to be so gentle—and I want your tongue on my, on my clit…I like it forceful.”

          “Like this?” He demonstrates and she writhes against his hot mouth, yelping. “Uhhnnn…”

          Squeezing her hips in his hands, sliding them under her to grasp her buttocks, Mycroft jerks her a little closer to his mouth, kneads her flesh, slides a hand up her belly and tweaks her nipples. His mouth is driving her crazy now, and she claws at the bed, his hair, handsfuls of her top…grasping his hair, she tugs it a little, and he finds that he like the sensation. Deepening the stroke of his long fingers, he thrusts them deeper into her passage, which is clenching fiercely as her orgasm approaches.

          When she comes, her screaming is so loud that he dimly fears the neighbors will call the police. Imagine how embarrassing it would be for them to be called out…

 

******

 

          Rosie was down for the night; John made himself a cuppa and settled in to his chair with a book. The flat was quiet, Mrs. Hudson was in her own place, Sherlock had been locked in his room for hours, and Wiggins had returned from his date and gone down to the basement flat, which he had moved into despite its dampness. John suspected it was a step up for him.

          “Rosie was a lamb today, eh?” Mary dropped into Sherlock’s chair and put her feet on the low table. “She’s growing so fast!”

          John put down his teacup, “She’ll be a handful, or I miss my guess. I don’t know how I’ll manage without you.”

          Her lovely smile pulled at his heart, and he had to clear his throat. “You know you won’t have to, John. I’m not going anywhere just yet. _You’ve_ seen to that. Besides, you have Sherlock, and Molly and Mrs. Hudson and Wiggins and Mycroft…you have people.”

          John nodded rapidly, staring at the frayed hem of his jumper; it was old, but the most comfortable of his collection. He thought of Mary wearing it over her pajamas, reading in bed of a Sunday morning. “Mary…”

          “You’re not alone, John. You have people.” Mary closed her eyes, crossed her hands over her stomach, “You have me, for as long as you need me.”

         


End file.
